Remission

Chalmers pushed open a door and walked into a Mexican grocery store. Carlos followed him to a diner in the back. 
“Now, you’re going to get yourself some real tacos,” Chalmers told Carlos. 
They ordered then sat down at a booth and looked around to see if anyone were checking them out. The mixture of Mexicans and local fans of Alejandro’s tacos and burritos were oblivious to the two. 
“So, what have you figured out so far,” Carlos asked as he sipped through a straw. “This rice milk is really good.” 
“I know I can’t die,” Chalmers said, raising hands showing he was still perplexed about so many other things. 
“Buzzzzz,” Carlos said, rice water spilling down his chin. “Wrong answer. Try again.” 
Chalmers shook his head in dismay and threw his hands in the air. “I’ve been shot…several times, I’ve had incurable cancer…twice. How can I die?” 
“Think about it,” Carlos said as he shoved a just served taco in his mouth. “Did you feel like you were going to die when you were in the hospital? 
Chalmers had a hard time understanding Carlos with his mouth full of taco. 
“Oh, God. These are good! Screw Big Star,” he said as he looked down at his taco. He looked back up. “So?” 
“Yeah, I felt like I was going to die. I knew I was going to die. So, just tell me what the hell is going on!” 
Chalmers still hadn’t taken a bite of his tacos. It was his mind that needed to be fed, not his stomach. 
“Say, what’s your name again?” Carlos asked, ignoring Chalmers’ theatrics. 
“James. James Dean Chalmers.” 
Carlos extended his hand. “Carlos Santana.” 
Chalmers took his hand. “I love your music.” 
“I love your little sausage patties, Jimmy Dean.” 
“Touché. I was named after the actor, not the sausage king.” 
“I was named after my grandfather.” 
Chalmers put his head in his hands. “I just want to know what the hell is going on.” 
Carlos smiled. “Okay, I’ll stop asking questions and give you the answers you want.”
“That’d be nice.”
“James, you and I are Justice Seekers.” 
“Justice what?” Chalmers asked, removing his hands from his head and staring at Carlos. 
“James, it’s a gift. We get to live and in return we seek justice for those who may not get it in this world.” 
Chalmers was on edge. He rubbed his head and his nervous habit of bouncing his leg was in full force. “Speak English here. What the hell are you talking about?” 
Carlos ignored his question and took another bite of his taco. “It was the old black lady, wasn’t it?” 
“Yeah, Selma Barron. How did you know?”
“Because, other than my grandfather, she’s the only other Justice Seeker I’ve actually met. She was a good woman. Can’t tell you how many gang bangers and drug dealers she took out.” 
“How could that little old lady kill so many people…so much younger than her…so much stronger than her?” Chalmers asked. 
“Does it really take someone strong to kill? Especially when you’re invincible. She lured them into her web like a spider.” 
“How did you find out about her?” Chalmers asked. 
“Saw her kill someone right in front of my eyes. She was hanging out in my neighborhood when a couple of Latin King gang bangers approached her asking what an old nig…you know. I don’t like that word. Anyway, I figure I’m going to get myself a kill and save a woman’s life in the process. I walk up to the two and tell them to leave her alone. She smiles all gap toothed at me and tells me that she’s all right. One of the Kings takes out a knife and says he’s going to carve me up. Ms. Barron says she doesn’t think so and fires her gun at the guy. He goes down immediately. The other King realizes he’s in trouble and starts to run. She yells at him to freeze. And he does. Then she tells him to come here like some kind of pissed off mom or something…and he does. She whispers in his ear that if he chooses to tell anyone what happened he needs to tell them that it was someone from a rival gang…not a little old grandmother from the Westside. Then she went over to the dying gang banger’s body and sucked in his mist. I knew right then she wasn’t just some brave old lady.” 
“Shit,” Chalmers said, soaking in the story. 
“Shit is right. You’re going to age and eventually I guess you could die, but at a very old age. You will be the strongest, toughest old geezer there is. But, the thing is…no one dies with the gift. They all pass it on. My grandfather passed it on to me. I have sickle cell anemia and I would have died without the gift. When I was sixteen I was almost dead. My grandfather breathed into my mouth and man I tell you my lungs felt like they were going to explode. He died within days. I got better, but within a few months, I was right back to being deathly sick. 
Chalmers listened intently. He could relate to Carlos; hell, he might have been the only person in the world who could. 
“You realize you will have to kill again?” 
Chalmers gritted his teeth and looked away. He slammed his fist down on the table causing everyone to look his way. “But, I don’t want this, damn it!” 
A large Mexican American man walked up to the table and spoke to Carlos as he looked at Chalmers. It was in Spanish, but Chalmers figured it was something along the line of “You want me to take care of this surfer gringo?” 
Carlos said something back in Spanish and the guy slowly walked away, but kept his eyes fixed on Chalmers. 
“Do I look like a stone cold killer? I kept getting sicker. I told my father I didn’t want the gift and to just let me die. So what does he do? He takes me to the worst neighborhood in Mexico City. He told a bunch of gang kids that if anyone could beat his son in a fight, he would pay them 5000 pesos. He held up the money in his fist and threw me at them. Jesus, I landed right on this guy tattooed from here to hell and twice my size. He punched me so hard, I lost my front teeth. Blood was everywhere. He jumped on top of me and just pummeled me. The weird thing was he stopped for a second and asked me how I got my teeth back. He gave me just enough time to feel them, and sure enough they were there. Then he was back to pummeling. My dad yells out, ‘Parada! Doble, si se le puede matar!’ 
Chalmers shrugged his shoulders; he didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. 
Carlos translated. “Double if you kill him!” 
“Jesus!” 
“Yeah, tell me about it. I’m